


The Case of the Missing Gospels

by DonnesCafe



Series: Aftermath [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit of schmoop, Case Fic, Gen, Light Angst, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:39:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock babysits and receives an unwelcome message</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Missing Gospels

Sherlock was walking around 221b with a baby on his shoulder. It felt quite odd. Michael felt heavy for his size, but fragile at the same time. He was currently squirming and making small, unhappy noises. Sherlock was nervous. 

He was nervous for two reasons. First, because Moriarty’s network seemed to be reassembling itself. In his last conversation with Mycroft, they had decided that there was nothing to be done except keep watching the network, increase security, and await developments. Sherlock hated awaiting anything. He wanted to do something. 

He was also uneasy because this was the first time John and Mary had left Michael alone with him. 

“Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Yes, dear?” It was Sunday night which, she had informed him, was dedicated to _Good Swan, Bad Swan_. Sherlock didn’t see the point of it. He had already told her that the skinny ballerina… well, they were all skinny…. but the brunette one obviously had history of some sort with the shorter one, and it wasn't going to end well. 

Michael made another unhappy noise. 

“Mrs. Hudson. There’s a …. smell.” 

She smiled an infuriating smile, stood up, and came over to where Sherlock and Michael had stopped in their circumambulation of the lounge. “He just needs his nappy changed, the darling.” She tickled a chubby cheek. 

Sherlock and Michael regarded her uneasily. 

“I’ll show you this once. There’s nothing to it. You need to learn.” After John and Mary left for their date-night, Sherlock had called Mrs. Hudson for back-up. Not that he couldn’t take care of Michael himself. Of course he could. How hard could tending to a proto-human be? They needed food, air, water, just like any other mammal. Mary and John had left numerous bags and… things…. behind for the care and sustenance of their offspring. They trusted him. 

He had stood at the window to watch them leave. Mary had cast an inscrutable glance up toward where he was standing, holding Michael, before she got in the car. As soon as the car was out of sight, he called Mrs. Hudson. He offered her tea and freedom of choice as to telly. She brought scones. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “How could one tiny baby…,” Mrs. Hudson handed him the wipes. He got to work. Wiping, powdering, affixing…. “A bit tighter, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “You’re doing fine.” Michael cooed at him throughout. He had dealt with corpses that had been in the Thames for days, with severed body parts, with blood (his own and that of others). He had watched numerous autopsies. This was more…. intimate. He felt a bit faint afterward. 

“You go sit down,” said Mrs. Hudson, patting him on the arm. “I’ll bring you a bottle for Michael and a nice cuppa.” 

Sherlock took his godson, fresh-smelling and smiling, and sat down with him in John’s chair. He thought perhaps John’s lingering scent might make Michael feel more at home. He looked down at the child in his lap. A tiny fist waved around, and Sherlock touched one of the minute knuckles with his index finger. The little fist opened. All the small fingers curled around his much larger one and held on tight. He was sure that he had an absolutely fatuous expression on his face when Mrs. Hudson reappeared with their drinks. 

~~~~~ 

It was after 11:00. Sherlock was proud. They had said dinner and a movie, and they were taking their time. Mrs. Hudson had gone back to her flat. He had fed Michael again all on his own. And changed him. Again. He made a nest on John’s chair of a couple of the fuzzy, bunny-strewn blankets he found in one of the bags and laid the sleeping baby carefully on his back. He was sitting on the floor by the chair with his phone on vibrate beside him in case John and Mary called. He surfed the internet for articles on normal lengths for three month old males. Michael seemed so small. Could there be something wrong? But then John and Mary were both on the short side. Probably nothing to worry about. 

The mobile beside him buzzed. He craned over to see it. Mycroft. He sighed and picked it up. 

It was actually a text. Mycroft hated texting. The text said //ANSWER YOUR PHONE. IMPORTANT. M // 

The phone buzzed again. 

“What is it?” 

“Sherlock, something has happened.” 

“I gathered that. What?” 

“Someone has stolen parts of the _Book of Kells_.” 

“I’m babysitting, Mycroft.” Michael suddenly made an unhappy noise. Sherlock rose to his knees and turned to look at him. His eyes were open and he was looking confusedly around him. Sherlock gently stroked his golden tufts of hair. “Shhh. It’s only Uncle Mycroft.” 

Then he said softly into the phone, “Doesn’t sound like my sort of crime. Isn’t the Book of Kells in Dublin? Trinity College? The authorities there….” 

“There was a note.” 

Why would the authorities in Dublin have called Mycroft? “What does the note say?” Suddenly he was afraid that he knew. He put the hand not holding the phone gently down on Michael’s chest. His hand covered it entirely. He was so small. 

“It was in Old Insular script. Latin. The same as the books.” 

“Yes, Mycroft. Just say it. They had it translated. Then they called you of all people. Tell me what it says.” 

_"Furtum sub luna es vicis….,”_

”In English, Mycroft,” hissed Sherlock. 

”Roughly translated, it says, ‘Robbery under the moon this time. More fitting for lovers. Come and play. James Moriarty.’”

**Author's Note:**

> The Book of Kells is a gospel manuscript dating back to the early 9th century. It is housed in the 18th century "Old Library" at Trinity College Dublin. Not only historically significant, it is a priceless work of art and one of Ireland's greatest national treasures. It is currently bound in four volumes, two of which are displayed at any one time. That's how only part of the "book" is stolen.


End file.
